Fraud
by hilaryclaire
Summary: As her rage subsides, CJ thinks of how she is the biggest fraud of them all.


Title: Fraud  
  
Author: Hilary Claire (email to: hilary_claire_@hotmail.com)  
  
Spoilers: Posse Comitatus  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Summary: As her rage subsides, CJ thinks of how she is the biggest fraud of them all.  
  
Pairings: Residues of CJ/Simon.  
  
Archive: Tell me where you want to put it and there's a good chance I'll say yes...  
  
Author's Notes: This popped into my head the other day, after reading much Post-Posse CJ fic. I thought, 'What haven't I read yet. Moreover, what would I like to read...' Then I wrote it. Kinda angsty, and I would apologize for it, except that the angst was totally the point.  
  
Feedback: Can be directed to hilary_claire_@hotmail.com or posted at fanfiction.net...  
  
Disclaims: No, I don't own anything here. I'm out of school currently, and I have to do something to prevent my brain from going all mushy over the summer... Ownership really belongs to one of the following entities: Aaron Sorkin. NBC. Warner Brothers. John Wells Productions... You get the idea.  
  
~~~  
  
CJ's thoughts are drifting today, indeed her entire being feels like it is drifting. She tells herself to focus, to get ready.  
  
The funeral is today.  
  
She walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water from the Brita jug that sits on her counter. Restlessly, she walks into her bedroom, flicking on the television, an attempt to get a feel for what her briefing will be like later on in the day. CNN isn't talking about much; some principal in Illinois who performed a thong check at a school dance seems to be the topic of the day.  
  
She wonders what to wear. There is a black dress, a beautiful black dress, hanging her in closet. If she were to wear it, she would wear it for him, because she knows he was looking at her when she tried it on. But since this isn't a state dinner or her prom, she knows it wouldn't exactly be appropriate. And anyways, it's not like he would see it, she thinks dejectedly.  
  
So she takes a blue shirt from her closet, a black skirt and jacket to go with it. This way, she can go from the funeral to her job, where the press will be waiting for the four o'clock briefing.  
  
She is nothing if not practical.  
  
So, she's dressed. She steps into the bathroom to fix her makeup and her hair. Then she comes out, sinks onto the bed, still cradling her glass of water. She wishes for something else to drink, a glass of good wine, but she isn't sure what effect alcohol will have on her present state of mind. Besides, it's too early for a drink, and anyways, she'll need to be on her toes for work later.  
  
She is nothing if not professional.  
  
Her thoughts have drifted again, but she is brought back to the present by an image on CNN. A New York street, lined with flowers and handmade cards. Here and there, candles are burning. She squints, having missed the introduction, trying to remember why it looks so familiar.  
  
It's the Korean Grocery; it is THAT Korean Grocery.  
  
The dizzying wave of realisation washes over her, and it leaves her feeling ill. She watches as a small girl adds a bouquet of daisies, tied with a pink ribbon to the display on the sidewalk. CJ gasps for air, feels the rage burning inside of her.  
  
You didn't know him! She thinks desperately, wishing all the people who have come to leave their flowers and their cards could hear her. She knows they offer their support, their blessings and prayers, but there is nothing she resents more than this. They didn't know him! What position are they in to comment, to even begin to offer their sympathies, their wilting petals and construction paper?  
  
She is incredulous.  
  
She remembers Columbine, how there was footage on television and in print of the flowers and cards that surrounded school. She remembers similar scenes after all of the terrible tragedies to befall the world in the past ten years. She feels suffocated now by the public outpouring of grief and sympathies.  
  
For CJ, grief has always been a private thing, and she is utterly shocked by the images on her television. If there are a few offerings outside the convenience store, they are nothing compared with the display outside the Secret Service building in Washington, where CNN's continuing coverage continues.  
  
What frauds! she thinks in protest, None of you knew him!  
  
And then CNN moves on, to the next feature. As her rage subsides, CJ thinks how if all who have come to leave flowers and cards are frauds, and if all who sign their name in support are the same, then she is the biggest fraud of them all.  
  
This realization shocks her more than anything else has and shrinks back, away from the television.  
  
She is a fraud.  
  
She knows this isn't entirely true, but with the way she has cried, wept shamelessly, and taken time off work... She feels like a fraud.  
  
She sits there for a long time, and the CNN feature of the Korean store in New York and the Secret Service Building in Washington repeats in the endless loop of the daily news cycle. When she looks at the clock, it is later than she expected, much later, and she knows she will have to rush to get to the funeral in time.  
  
But in the end, she doesn't rush.  
  
In the end she doesn't go to the funeral at all, but instead to the Seven Eleven down her street. As she walks into the store, she tries not to look over her shoulder for a man with a gun or a man with a bomb or a man who is stalking her and especially not for a man who is protecting her from all the dangers of the world... She stops herself from panicking as she searches her wallet for change.  
  
She buys a Milky Way bar, which she eats slowly on her walk to work, her own personal tribute to a man she wanted to know better.  
  
By the time she gets to work, she feels slightly better, but the residue of her fraud hangs over her like a cloud. She wonders when, if ever, the skies will clear for her. As she walks into the briefing room, she shoves the cloud away. After all, she has a job to do.  
  
Because she is nothing if not professional.  
  
And even in this, she fears that she is nothing but a fraud. 


End file.
